


The Only Thing That Mattered

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Disabled Character, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Post-Canon, Reminiscing, Sakura (Cherry Blossoms), Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-01 16:13:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14524380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'Do you ever think about when we met?'" Springtime makes Shizuo nostalgic and Izaya is indulgent.





	The Only Thing That Mattered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ant2123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ant2123/gifts).



“Do you ever think about when we met?”

Izaya tips his head to the side to look through his lashes at Shizuo. The other is lying flat on his back across the blanket spread out under them with his hands folded over the white of his shirt: he’s given up his vest and tie in consideration of the present situation, but the stark white and black of his shirt and slacks together still grant him an air of odd formality, as if he has perhaps run away from some half-finished wedding ceremony. The idea tugs a smirk at the corner of Izaya’s lips, and when he speaks his voice is resonant with the same amusement.

“Have we reached the nostalgia part of flower viewing?” he asks. “I didn’t think you had had enough sake for that yet. You’re more of a lightweight than I gave you credit for.”

“It’s not the sake,” Shizuo says, looking and sounding utterly unruffled by Izaya’s gentle teasing. “I was just thinking about the way the flowers look and that made me remember.” His head turns, his focus fixes on Izaya next to him; for a moment they’re caught gazing at each other with nothing but the warmth of budding springtime in the air between them. “It was spring when I first saw you.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow. “You really _are_ tipsy,” he says without much bite on the words. “We met at school, Shizu-chan, of course it was springtime.”

Shizuo lifts a hand to wave away this objective truth. “That’s not what I mean,” he says. “I met a lot of people but I don’t remember any of the rest of them.” He tips his head against the blanket like he’s trying to get a better line of sight on the sideways glance Izaya is giving him. “It was different with you.”

“At least I made my point,” Izaya says evenly. “If trying to stab you didn’t make me stand out in your memory, I don’t know what I would have tried next.”

Shizuo snorts, as he was meant to. “That’s not what I mean either,” he says. “Even before that. Before I knew your name.” He turns his head again to return his attention to the blossoms of the tree arching over their blanket. “It was different with you right from the start.”

Izaya considers Shizuo’s expression for a moment. With the other’s head turned up to the pale petals overhead he can stare without fear of an audience, at least for the span of a few seconds. Shizuo’s mouth is relaxed, his eyes are soft; he looks pensive more than caught in the irritation that so characterized their first meeting, languid rather than painfully tense, but the resemblance is still clear enough to flicker backwards in Izaya’s memory over a dozen years to the glow of dappled sunlight against bleached-blond hair and a jacket the same springtime blue as the curve of the sky overhead. Izaya can remember standing at the frame of the window that partitioned him away from the rest of the world, that always before served as enough to shed unwanted attention: and he can remember that yellow head lifting, that scowling face turning up towards him, those dark eyes seeking him out to match him stare-for-stare even across the distance of a school courtyard and the height of the second-story window in which Izaya was perched.

“Yes,” Izaya says. “It was different.”

Shizuo’s mouth quirks onto a grin as he tips his head to look up at Izaya watching him. “You _do_ know what I mean.”

Izaya shrugs. “Maybe it’s just the sake talking.” He turns away to reach for the half-full cup of the same resting at the far corner of the blanket, where he’s unlikely to knock it over; at his side Shizuo shifts to push himself up and off the ground to lean hard against an elbow instead. There’s the weight of a touch against the hem of Izaya’s shirt, where the fabric has slipped up over the hours since they arrived in the cool grey of dawn; Shizuo’s fingers catch against the cloth and pull idly against it, his fingertips skimming against the line of Izaya’s hip.

“It’s always been different,” Shizuo says. He’s speaking softly, and with his head ducked down as if he’s talking to himself, but they’re near enough that Izaya hears as clearly as if Shizuo’s lips were skimming the shell of his ear.

Izaya looks at the top of Shizuo’s head. His hair is tangled over his forehead, the beached-pale of it turned to gold by the play of the light around them; it shows the signs of comfort as surely as the easy slouch of his body over the blankets does. It’s strange to see Shizuo so relaxed, to see him so utterly absent the tension that was such a staple between them for so long; stranger still to have him so near in spite of that relaxation, to have him free to leave and choosing to stay all the same. Izaya lifts the sake to his lips to taste a sip, just enough to glow warmth against his tongue and down at the inside of his chest, and then he reaches out to set it aside without looking away from Shizuo still playing with the corner of his shirt as if he’s trapped himself in the fibers.

“I’d been looking forward to meeting you,” Izaya says, speaking with deliberate clarity, as if the words are easy to say instead of the struggling confession they feel. Shizuo’s head lifts, his gaze fixes on Izaya’s face with the same intensity it did all those years ago; Izaya reaches for a smile and pulls something nearly a smirk onto his lips in answer. “Heiwajima Shizuo, the monster of Ikebukuro.” He lifts his hand to push through Shizuo’s hair; Shizuo tips his head back to the contact but he doesn’t break that fixed eye contact they have between them. “I wanted to see if you lived up to the legend.”

Shizuo snorts a laugh that tinges his cheeks the same shade as the blossoms overhead, but when he speaks his voice has dropped low with the effect of his self-consciousness. “Did I?”

It’s an obvious question. The answer should be easy too, the words ought to slide from Izaya’s lips with practiced grace. But sincerity clutches at his throat, honesty stops his breath, and for a moment he’s the boy he once was all over again, staring with his heart pounding on adrenaline as something with the shape of a boy and the strength of a weapon beat his way to victory against a crowd of attackers. Shizuo’s smile flickers, his teasing grin melting into something softer at whatever he’s seeing in Izaya’s face, and Izaya takes a breath and makes one of those attempts at honesty that grow easier with practice but never quite fall into comfort.

“I’d never seen anyone like you,” he says. “You were more real than anything I had ever seen in my life.” He lets his hand fall from Shizuo’s hair to rest against the back of the other’s neck instead; when he lifts his head it’s to fix his gaze on the branches overhead while he waits for some of the fluttering adrenaline in his heart to ease and give him back the rhythm of his inhales.

There’s a long pause. Izaya’s heart is still thrumming on speed, he can feel the strain of his adrenaline pulling at his shoulders and aching into tension at his legs. He has to fight the urge to cross one over the other, to chase down the relief of the pain that used to come from such a minor action; even knowing it’s unlikely to offer the bone-deep hurt it once did, the impulse is too deep-set for him to easily shake it. Izaya frowns at his legs, willing himself to relax the straining muscles and finding no success; and then a hand presses against the top of his thigh, strong fingers slide down to settle over his knee, and Izaya loses the strain in his chest into a huff of air as Shizuo’s touch pins the tremor in his leg to stillness.

“You got my attention too,” Shizuo says, with surprising calm on his voice. He lifts his hand to reach over Izaya’s lap and weight his palm to the top of the other’s thigh; when he presses down he urges pressure in his wake, his hand carrying force enough to ease the reflexive tension in Izaya’s muscles to slack surrender. “I’ve thought about you every day since we met.”

Izaya huffs an exhale; the laugh is stripped of its force by the aching relief of Shizuo’s hand digging in against his shaking legs, but the structure carries through anyway, and that’s enough for his purposes. “The scar did what I wanted it to, then.”

“Not the scar.” Shizuo wraps his fingers around Izaya’s leg, just over the bone of the other’s knee, and squeezes to urge pressure in against the tendons; Izaya’s lashes flutter with the satisfaction of the force smoothing the inevitable knots of tension that come with the effort of walking even just the distance to the park. Shizuo lingers for a moment, pressing gentle certainty in against the side of Izaya’s knee before he lifts his hand to repeat the process on the other side. “I saw you before that. At the window, when I was coming in the gates that first day.”

Izaya looks at Shizuo tipped in over him; but Shizuo’s attention is all on what he’s doing, his head is bowed down as if to grant extra force to the work of his fingers. Izaya swallows and tries to find words for himself. “I didn’t think you’d remember that.”

Shizuo’s laugh is a purr in the air, more heat spilling over Izaya’s skin than sound at his ears. He lifts his head and looks up from what he’s doing to meet Izaya’s gaze as his grip eases away from intent pressure to casual contact. Izaya can see Shizuo’s gaze flicker over his face, can track the other’s attention in the dip of his lashes and the soft weight at his mouth; he can see Shizuo’s focus drop to his lips, can parse intention in the angle of Shizuo’s head as the other considers him, until he’s shutting his own eyes even as Shizuo is leaning in towards him to close the gap between them. Shizuo’s mouth is gentle against his, delicate with care as if Izaya is as fragile as one of the blossoms clouding around the branches overhead; they stay there for a long moment, lingering in the careful press of lips to lips, and when Shizuo does finally draw back it’s so slow that it hardly feels a breaking at all as much as a moment to catch their breath from the heat between them.

“I could never forget you,” Shizuo says. “I think I was done for the moment I saw you.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth into a quirk of amusement. “Careful there,” he says, and he lifts his hand to push against the tangle of Shizuo’s hair. “You’re starting to sound like a star-crossed lover, now.”

Shizuo hums. “No,” he says. When he ducks in it’s to bump his forehead against Izaya’s and pin their hair together between them. “We weren’t doomed by fate.”

“Saved by it instead?” Izaya suggests, and fits his hand against the back of Shizuo’s neck, just inside the loose collar of his shirt. “You really are a romantic at heart, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo’s smile is heat against his mouth. “Yeah,” he says; and he’s leaning in to brace himself against Izaya’s leg, and Izaya is lifting his other hand to wind into Shizuo’s hair, and when they come together neither of them pull apart for a long span of unmarked time.s


End file.
